


Hellblau

by mustachemoose



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men Evolution
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Eventual Smut, M/M, also this may feature religious imagery/references just fyi, nightsilver, there will be violence and graphic scenes but they wont be too graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11574279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustachemoose/pseuds/mustachemoose
Summary: Magic was the sort of thing Peter Maximoff never truly believed in, even while his twin sister, Wanda, practiced it on a daily basis. That is, until she gets him involved in a strange ritual that ends up scarring him both mentally and physically, and unintentionally brings a demon into their house.





	1. Heads Will Roll

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be working on my other fic (Summer) but I get distracted very easily and I like to spend my time writing other things when I can't focus. So, while Summer is still in the works, I'll be working on this in the meantime because it involves things that catch my interest. I've gotten pretty spiritual/religious lately, so I thought it would be interesting to apply this ideology onto a character known for her magic. Just a warning now, this story will feature things that may make you uncomfortable, like: religious and spiritual references, violence and blood (but not enough to the point of being too graphic, hopefully), sex, etc. I'll be sure to warn you all before each chapter if there's something really bad, but other than that, I leave the responsibility of being cautious while reading to you. If there is a warning that I failed to add and you feel like I should, go ahead and tell me. Other than that, please enjoy.  
> Fyi, each chapter will feature a song (evident by the titles). The song that goes with this chapter is Heads Will Roll by Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I recommend giving it a listen to set the mood.

What did they do? 

 

The air is filled to the brim with smoke, flowing straight into their lungs and choking them with the scent of sulfur. It smells like death, but that can't compare to how Peter feels. He's on the ground, screaming and clutching his head, and his hair burns between his fingers. He thinks he can hear his sister call out to him, but the blood pumping through his ears is too loud. There's a sensation that pulsates throughout his body, like liquid metal slowly filling each vein, filling him up so much that it begins to leak out through his eyes and down his cheeks. 

 

A few hours ago, everything was perfectly fine. A few hours ago, they still had a chance to live. A few hours ago...

 

Peter was left in the house with his housemate, Lance, both free to do whatever they wanted. Which ended up with them breaking into the room that belonged to Peter's twin sister, Wanda. She always locked her door to keep them out, and they always managed to find a way in. Call it curiosity or a brother not respecting his sister’s privacy, Peter wanted in and Lance only enabled him. 

 

“Are you sure you got it?” Peter asked, peering over Lance’s shoulder as the boy bent in front of the door, fiddling with the lock.

 

“Yeah, yeah. If I can break into the principal’s office back in high school, this ain't a problem.”

 

“Didn’t you end up breaking down the door?”

 

“...Shut up.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes and stood back, pacing right behind him until the handle clicked. Lance wasted no time pushing the door open, earning a pat on the back from his friend as they both walked inside. More often than not, when a person walked into a room filled with wiccan paraphernalia, they usually turned tail and got out of there as soon as possible. The boys, on the other hand, flipped the light switch and strolled throughout the room as if they owned the place. Peter flopped onto Wanda’s bed, folding his arms beneath his head as he stared up at the crimson canopy above, while Lance turned his focus on the curiosities lining Wanda’s bookshelf. Peter would never understand what exactly made her bed so comfortable, but he loved to lay on it and close his eyes and inhale the odd yet sweet scent of incense. Perhaps it was the fact that his bed was usually unmade, and covered in clothes or school books he never bothered to put away. Hers was always presentable and clean, so he made it his number one spot to lounge whenever Wanda wasn’t around. 

 

The boy cracked open an eye when Lance mumbled something under his breath, followed by the clink of glass. He yawned, “You better not be breaking anything, or else Wanda’s gonna make your head into a nice candle holder.”

 

“Nah, man. If anything, she’ll blame you.” Lance said, turning to him with a vial in his hand. “Besides, she’s got some really weird shit this time.”

 

Sitting up, Peter glanced at the item - a thin tube of glass, filled with red liquid and topped with a cork. He nearly smacked his face on the floor scrambling to stand up and dash over, snatching it out of Lance’s hand. “Holy shit… Is this blood?” He said, sticking the glass so close to his eye it practically touched his cornea. It sure looked like blood, and if he opened it up, he was pretty sure it would smell like blood too. Here’s hoping it wasn’t hers. 

 

“Check out this other stuff.” 

 

The stuff in question laid on top of a table against the wall, covered in a purple cloth - her altar, if he wasn't mistaken. There were jars and bottles and vials, either filled with various herbs, bones, or liquids that couldn’t be identified. Peter put the vial of blood back in its spot on a stand, his hand hovering over a few crystals and stones etched with gold symbols, a few of which Lance grabbed and examined. Then something else caught his eye. In the center of the table, on an antique stand, sat a book with no words on the cover to reveal its contents. Peter reached for it, but the moment he made contact, a chill went down his spine and froze him in place. He really wanted to pick it up, but something at the back of his mind told him that was a very bad idea. Too bad Lance took the initiative and picked it up for him.  

 

Peter watched the other over his shoulder, the way he flipped the book around this way and that. Something tickled his throat, an itch that made him want to tell Lance to stop, but he didn’t know why. When Lance moved to open it up, he grabbed onto his wrist and scared the both of them. 

 

“Dude, what’s your deal? Let go.” Lance said, yanking himself away, and Peter let him. 

 

“I… I don’t know. Just don’t open that.”

 

Lance scoffed, “What? You afraid I’m gonna release a curse or something?” He dangled the book by its spine in front of Peter, shaking it back and forth until a slip of paper fell out. Just as Peter moved to pick it up, the front door downstairs slammed shut, followed by Wanda calling out to the both of them. 

 

Peter quickly pocketed the paper and shoved Lance towards the table, practically diving behind the bed while his friend was left out in the open. Lance threw the book back in its spot, slightly askew, but he didn’t have time to fix it as he joined the other behind their only defense from Wanda’s wrath. They huddled together, a hand slapped over each other’s mouth, breaths held back as they listened to her footsteps slam up the stairs. Hushed prayers were whispered when they heard her say, “What the hell? Why is my door open?”

 

The heavy stomps ended at the doorway, and when Peter dared to peek around the corner of the mattress, he felt his heart leap in his throat when Wanda looked in his direction. It was only a matter of time before she found them, and when she did… let’s just say, Peter and Lance were going to be missing for quite some time. He pressed his skull to the side of the bed, Lance’s pair of wide eyes reflected in his own as they stared at one another, the sounds of Wanda’s boots getting closer and closer across the old floorboards. 

 

_ Creak, creak, creak… slam! _

 

Both boys shot their heads up to take a peek, only to see Wanda hurry towards the book Lance left in a disarray, now flat against the table with a mess of tipped over bottles around it. Peter got on his hands and knees, and crawled across the floor like a soldier behind enemy lines, Lance right behind him. The moment they passed through the doorway, their relief dried up in milliseconds because they didn’t notice Wanda turn around. 

 

“What the- Peter! Lance!”

 

Both boys scrambled onto their feet and nearly tumbled down the stairs, Peter flying out the door while Lance grabbed his keys off the nearby table. It was a mad dash between the three of them, Lance’s car parked right on the sidewalk ahead, and Wanda only a few feet behind. Peter didn’t dare look back, he’d only see the fire in her eyes and trip over himself if he did. When the boys slammed against the doors and leaped inside, Lance decided to save his complaints about being delicate with his vehicle for another time, when they weren’t being hunted by a teenage  _ Vampira _ . The engine sputtered and whined, refusing to cooperate no matter how many times Lance turned the ignition. Something heavy slammed on the hood, and when they looked up, there was Wanda, illuminated by headlights. 

 

“Jesus Christ, Lance! Get this damn thing moving!” Peter yelled, his finger pushing the lock on his door half a dozen times. She stalked around the side towards Lance’s door, a cat ready to rip apart frantic birds. The moment she was just outside the window, the glass fogging up with her breath, the engine roared to life and Lance spared no time shifting the car into reverse, backing up enough to knock over a trashcan. Peter looked around the other’s shoulder and could see Wanda stand there in front of the house, smoke practically wafting off her head from how much she fumed. He said, “Hurry up and shift this thing into maximum overdrive.”

 

“Yeah, no shit.” Lance slammed his foot down and the tires squealed, the car zooming by her and down the street. Once they were far enough, he continued, “You have your wallet, right?”

 

“...Yeah, why?”

 

Lance shrugged and shot Peter an impish grin. “Because we’re going to Todd’s place and I wanna bring some beers.”

 

“Ugh,  _ Toad _ ? You wanna go to Toad’s place right now? I’m pretty sure his apartment is a biohazard.”

 

“It probably is, but it’s not like we got any other place to go right now. Besides, you owe me a drink after all the crap you just put me through, and I wanna be shit-faced by the time we get home so I won’t have to deal with  _ your  _ sister.” 

 

Peter opened his mouth, but there wasn’t any point in arguing. It’s not like there was any other place they could go until Wanda cooled off, and Todd - ah, screw it, Peter could only call him Toad - was technically his friend. The only reason the little creep liked him in the first place was because he had a huge crush on Wanda, but at the very least Peter could count on him for company. Even if he was a filthy, little swamp creature. 

 

They pulled up in front of a liquor store, the fluorescent lights above buzzing and flickering as Peter stepped out the car. He looked over to Lance and saw him pull out his phone, probably dialing up Toad to tell him of the impending company. The door beeped as he stepped in, the clerk with droopy eyes behind the register didn't even glance in his direction. Honestly, Peter could probably walk out with an entire keg, and the guy wouldn’t have noticed. As tempted as he was to try, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the consequences should he be caught, so he kept his hands to himself as he walked towards the drinks chilling in ice.

 

The selection was fairly slim, which made sense given this place seemed like a store out of a backwater town. There was a very good chance Peter wasn't going to find any artisanal beers or imported spirits. Not that he was aiming for those things, but anything seemed heavenly in comparison to the cheap pack of beer with peeling labels he picked up. He shrugged, this was perfectly fine with him. It's not like he was going to drink it and he was the one paying for it, so quality wasn't an issue. Peter sauntered over towards the register, his free hand slipping into his pocket, only to run his fingers over something thin and smooth. Stopping in his tracks, he set the beer on the floor and pulled out the item - the paper that fell out of Wanda’s book. 

 

Looking at it, it was a piece of folded parchment, the inside of which looked like a bunch of scribbles and scratched out words. Upon closer inspection, it was a list, most of the items crossed out except for one thing at the bottom. He could barely read any of it, most of the words were smudged or scribbled in cursive, so he wasn’t entirely sure if he read ‘quicksilver’ or ‘rabbit heart’ correctly. Honestly, he prayed that he read those wrong. The only item missing seemed to be a bottle of red wine. Peter stared at the word and the small drawings taking up the rest of the page, circles and symbols with illegible notes scattered around them. Looking over his shoulder, he could see a rack of wine bottles, a majority of them missing save for a few cheap brands. His eyes fell on the only bottle of red wine resting near the bottom, forgotten and alone among the sea of discount liquor. 

 

Peter looked between it, the note, and the register with the half-asleep employee, and muttered under his breath, “Shit…”

 

...

 

Lance was about ready to jump out of the car and yank Peter out of the store by his collar, until the boy walked out the door with a case of beer bottles in one hand, a brown paper bag in the other. It was like he marched towards the gallows as he neared the car, that solemn expression on his face befitting a dead man better than Lance’s happy-go-lucky cohort. By the time Peter settled in and they were on the road once more, his silence, ironically, seemed too loud for Lance to bear. He said, “What’s the matter, dude? You okay?”

 

Peter nodded and sighed, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

 

“Okay… What’s in the bag?”

 

The boy tucked the bag near his feet and settled the beers in his lap, not bothering to look at his friend when he said, “Just something for Wands. She seemed pretty pissed off, so maybe I could bribe her with a little booze.”

 

“Oooh, so that’s why you’re so quiet. You just spent all your cash on drinks, didn’t you?” Lance chuckled.

 

Peter smirked, leaning his head against the window as buildings and cars passed them by. Lance was partially right, he just spent a majority of his money on drinks for other people that he wouldn’t get a sip of, but that wasn’t what kept him quiet. It was Wanda. What exactly was she doing? Half the things on her list were toxic, the rest just plain macabre. He knew she liked to dabble with a little magic in her free time, but most of the time, it was spells to help her pass her classes or give her a monetary boost. While Peter didn’t really believe in any of that, Wanda did have great grades and more cash than she knew what to do with, so maybe there was some truth to it all. Wait, did he seriously just think that there was a chance magic was real? That was ridiculous, there was a explanation for everything here in the real world, dominated by logic and scientific fact, not ghosts and pixie dust. His concern lied more in her safety than anything else. He didn’t care what she believed in or how she liked to worship her hippy gods, he just didn’t want to walk into her room one day and see her dead on the floor. 

 

The car squeaked to a halt in front of a small apartment complex, which looked more like a motel in Peter’s opinion, but it was cheap and close to the university, so there wasn’t much point in him badmouthing it. Lance grabbed the beers and got out, making his way up the stairs that echoed each step with a metallic whine, Peter a step behind him. Each apartment they passed by had its own ambiance, usually muffled televisions or people talking, while Toad’s place was the loudest of the bunch, music blasting behind the door without a care. Lance banged his fist on the wood and dropped his voice to a deeper tone, yelling, “This is the police! Get your slimy, little ass out here!”

 

They had to hold back their laughter when the music turned off and Toad shouted back, “Stripper police or police-police?”

 

“Nah, there ain’t enough cash in the world to get us to strip for you, Toad.” Peter replied, Lance snickering next to him.

 

The door opened and Toad looked up at the both of them, a greenish tint to his face as he rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Yeah, well, I would pay you two to keep your clothes on.” He said, stepping back and motioning for the two of them to follow. 

 

The interior of the place looked much worse than the outside would suggest, given the copious amounts of abandoned pizza boxes and old magazines with faded swimsuit models. If he looked hard enough, Peter was almost certain he’d find a fly colony hiding in the overflowing hamper. The air was a little hazy too, a strange scent wafting around that most people would link to pot, but Toad was too poor to afford that, his place just (un)naturally had a swampy atmosphere to it. 

 

Lance put the beers on the sticky counter, grabbing one while Toad got one for himself, the two of them settling down on the chewed up sofa. As much as Peter wanted to partake in a little booze himself, even it it was cheap, he was designated driver for the evening, so he couldn’t touch a drop of it. Especially since Lance was keen on going back completely plastered. How he intended to do that with only a few beers, though, Peter wasn’t certain. Peter opted to seat himself on the arm of the couch, his eyes focused on the old television set on top of cardboard boxes, some violent movie playing but the volume was too low to hear anything. He only looked up when Toad asked, “How’s Wanda doin’?”

 

Lance took a swig of his drink and said, “Oh, she’s just peachy. Peter made me break into her room again, and she chased us out the house.”

 

“Shut up, man, you were a willing participant.” Peter huffed, shoving the other by his shoulder, but they all laughed anyway. 

 

Toad took a long drink and giggled, “Next time you do, be sure to invite me.”

 

“Ugh, for what? So you can steal some of her panties again?” Lance said. 

 

“No! Well… no.” The boy slumped back in his seat and fiddled with the bottle in his hands. “I just wanna see the kinda stuff she’s into, so I can get her something she likes, ya know?”

 

Peter leaned across the couch and pointed at him. “You can look all you want, slimeball, we all you know you can’t afford jack shit.”

 

Lance chimed in, “Yeah, besides, the only thing you got that she likes would probably be your eyes. She’s been needing a pair of fresh ones for her magic spells.” He bugged out his eyes and wiggled his eyebrows.

 

“Nah, dude, that’s eye of newt, not eye of Toad.”

 

The two of them broke into fits of laughter, ignoring the exaggerated pout Toad made. He reached over to flick Lance on the ear, a stupid choice on his part since Lance handed his drink to Peter and pinned Toad down against the sofa within seconds. No matter how much he squirmed and kicked, he was stuck, his voice muffled against the cushions as he said, “I invite you two into my home, and this is what I get. I’ll be sure to tell Kitty about this the next time I see her,  _ Dominic. _ ”

 

Lance flipped the boy on his back and grabbed him by the collar, bumping their noses together. “First off, that’s not my real name, you shit.” He growled, “Second, you better stay away from Kitty or else I’ll tell Wanda about all the pictures you have of her in her swimsuit.”

 

Peter wanted to add his two cents to their little squabble, even though that would be difficult since Lance was giving Toad a noogie, but he focused more on that name - Dominic. Truth be told, Lance’s real name was Dominikos, but he went with Lance because it was easier to say and he didn’t run the risk of someone butchering his Greek birth name. Peter could relate, given his own birth name was Pietro. Then again, it was always funny to see Lance’s reaction whenever he got called Dominic, more specifically by Toad because it always resulted in an ass-kicking. 

 

Just as Lance pulled Toad into a headlock, there came heavy knocks on the door, strong enough to rattle the wood. Peter opted to answer it, since Lance was busy pulling his victim up over his shoulders and tossing him behind the couch. There, beyond the doorway, was someone who was more blubber than man - Fred, better known as Blob whenever he made a show of his massive size and inhuman strength. He was a little red in the face and smelled like a bonfire, only offering Peter a hard pat on the back as he stepped inside, two large bottles in his hands. 

 

“Ey, yo, man! Help me! These guys are assholes.” Toad whined, peeking up over the sofa, his eyes falling on what Fred brought along. “Shit, man, is that tequila?”

 

“Sure is.” Fred said as he walked over and crashed onto the couch, nearly toppling it over in the process. “Stole ‘em from a couple of frat guys throwing a party.”

 

“Aw, sweet! Peter only got us the cheap shit.” Lance added.

 

“Screw you, I was the one paying for it.”

 

Fred piped up, “Peter paid for drinks? Don’t you usually steal ‘em?”

 

When all the boys nodded their heads in agreement, Peter stood up and pointed at each of them. “Hey, I only steal from big stores where it’s easy to hide.”

 

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you nearly got caught last time.” Lance said.

 

Toad snickered, “Yeah, or he’s being a giant pussy.”

 

When Peter picked Toad up and held him upside down, the other two howled with laughter, telling him to spin the boy around or smack him against the wall like a sack of flour. Peter might as well have all the fun he can now, since he’ll be going home to a pissed off sister, completely sober. So, while Lance sipped from his beer and Fred winced as he took a swig of tequila, he held Toad by the ankles over his shoulder and said, “You guys wanna see how far we can dangle him through the window?”

 

Toad screamed no, while the other two agreed with a little too much enthusiasm, so majority ruled. 

 

…

 

It seemed as if Lance got his wish for tonight, since Peter had to drag him down the stairs towards the car, giggling and stumbling all the way. Who knew tequila mixed with grape  _ Kool-Aid _ and sour beers on the side could be so intoxicating? Honestly, he knew it was time to cut the group off when Toad started to jump around like a, well, toad, and Fred broke an empty beer bottle over his head while he screamed, “Nothing can take down the Blob!” Lance simply sat there and slurred as he went on and on about how he was finally going to ask Kitty out - some girl he shared a math class with that was the unfortunate object of his affections.

 

Peter shoved his friend into the passenger side while he took the front seat, Lance’s whines to go back ignored as he started up the car and pulled out onto the street. The drive home wouldn’t be long, no matter how many detours he could take, their death at the hands of Wanda inevitable. He rolled down the windows and turned on the radio,  _ Witchy Woman  _ by  _ The Eagles _ playing as the wind whipped by, perfectly suited to the autumn atmosphere that consumed the world. 

 

“Why’re we going back? Wands is just gonna yell at us.” Lance whined, his head sticking out the window, the seat belt the only thing that kept him from flying out. 

 

Peter pulled him back in and said, “Because I’m not spending the night at Toad’s place, I don’t wanna wake up covered in slime and flies.”

 

The other boy let out a chuckle, his droopy gaze slowly shifting from the road ahead towards Peter. Initially, it seemed fine, but when Lance kept his eyes glued to him and grew a dopey grin, Peter would’ve smacked him upside the head if he wasn’t driving. 

 

“Lance… Please don’t tell me you’re about to drunkenly confess your love to me.”

 

“Nah, I…” He let out a small hiccup and giggled, “I think I’d tell Blob I love him before you. I just think that you’d look cool if you dyed your hair.” Lance reached out to pick up a plain, brown strand off of Peter’s head. 

 

“Yeah? I think you’d look cool if you got a haircut. You’re practically rocking a mullet at this point.”

 

Lance gave him a halfhearted smack across the chest, and Peter reached across to ruffle his hair in retaliation. It became a back and forth fight, consisting of drunken slaps on one end and shoves from the other, not stopping until they parked by the curb. Peter wasn’t entirely sure how he managed to pull Lance out of his seat and drag him all the way to the porch, but he considered it a job well done, even when Lance stepped through the doorway and fell on his face a few steps beyond the mat. The sound of a body hitting the floor like a pile of bricks was anything but subtle, but other than the boy’s muffled whines, the house remained silent. Strange. This was usually the point when Wanda ran down the stairs to rip their heads off. 

 

A door creaked open upstairs, a pair of voices coming closer until Peter saw two figures at the top of the staircase. There was Wanda, stopping mid sentence to glare down at her brother, and a girl right next to her who looked like a textbook goth. She smirked and said in her thick, southern accent, “Hey, Peter. Did you and Lance go shoplifting tonight?”

 

“Hey, Anna. Raid any  _ Hot Topics  _ lately?” He sneered, leaning on the railing while Lance groaned right behind him. 

 

She rolled her eyes and stomped down the steps, stopping to poke a finger to his chest. “For the last time, I told you to to call me  _ Rogue _ .” She said, flipping her red hair in his face before she sashayed towards the door, Wanda right behind her. She wasn’t as subtle, dealing a hard smack to the back of Peter’s head as she went by and stood next to the girl. They fixed their black and ruby red makeup, adjusting the jackets over their shoulders while Rogue fished her phone out of her pocket. When Peter asked them what they were up to, all he got was a middle finger from his sister.

 

Rogue laughed, not bothering to look up from her phone as she said, “We’re heading out to pick something up. Hey, you got the list, right?” She looked up and turned to Wanda.

 

“I can’t find it. It was in my book, but  _ some  _ dipshits were messing around with it earlier.” The glare she shot in Peter’s direction read nothing but murder, but he just offered back a cheeky smile. She continued, “Besides, we just need a bottle of wine, don’t we?”

 

“Yeah, but we need to check over it again to make sure we got everything. You sure you don’t know where it is?”

 

“I know where it is.” Peter piped up. Both girls looked at him, their gazes shifting from his face to his hands as he reached into his pocket to pull out their missing list. Wanda stepped forward to rip it back, but he held it over his head and said, “Wait, hold up. If I told you I got you a bottle of wine, does that mean you won’t kill me?”

 

“Don’t screw around with me, Peter.” She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down, her glare venomous as she reached up to snatch the list back. 

 

“I’m serious. Go check in Lance’s car, it should be unlocked.”

 

Wanda motioned for Rogue to go check, which she did with a shrug. Even while Wanda stared him down, he focused on the other girl’s steps down the concrete, the click of a car door, and the rustle of a paper bag as she came back. Seeing Rogue stand in the doorway, complete surprise on her face with the wine bottle in her hand felt a little too satisfying. Not as satisfying as seeing Wanda turn around and drop her jaw. 

 

“What… where did you even get wine from? Did you steal it?” She said, shoving Peter back to stand by her friend, both of them looking the bottle over as if it were an illusion that required study. 

 

“Oddly enough, no. I hope this means I’m excused of all charges?” 

 

Just as Peter slowly backed away, nearly tripping over Lance who snored the entire time, Rogue said, “Actually, we might need him to stick around.”

 

The twins said in unison, “What? Why?”

 

“Uh, well…” She held up her phone with a few texts on the screen, looking sheepish as she continued, “I just got a text from my friend, and she can’t show up.”

 

“What do you mean she can’t show up? She agreed to join us over a month ago!”

 

“Don’t get mad at me, ain’t my fault her brother got sick.”

 

“Ugh…” Wanda groaned and held her head in her hands, “It’s not like we can reschedule… Do we  _ have _ to have three people?”

 

“Yeah, you remember what it says in the book. Don’t wanna mess it up, do ya?”

 

They both focused on Peter with a strange intensity that made him squirm. Honestly, he would’ve ran in the opposite direction if Lance wasn’t behind his feet. Without another word, Wanda rolled her eyes and grumbled beneath her breath, stomping forward to grab her brother by the ear and drag him upstairs, Rogue right behind them. Each whine and complaint he made went ignored, the pain on his earlobe constant until they passed the threshold to Wanda’s room and locked the door. It was then he witnessed the extent to which their little “magic meetup” had gone. 

 

All the furniture was pushed back against the walls, three large, chalk circles drawn within one another on the floorboards. Around each one was a collection of vials, bones, and metals, following a color scheme inside to out; gold, silver, and copper. The last circle was laced in salt, the line of it thick enough to form a wall. Which also explained the shortage of table salt in the kitchen cupboard. The lights overhead were replaced by candles, dozens of them around the room, each a different color and inscribed with different symbols. Rogue took the list from Wanda and read over it, while the other girl took the strange book left on the altar and flipped through the pages. Peter could only stand and stare, stuck in the air heavy with incense. He felt his skin crawl with an odd tingling sensation that he couldn't explain. It stretched down to his stomach when he noticed the jars with dead insects and animal organs. 

 

When Wanda caught the look on his face, she said, “If you help us with this, and it works, then I won't kill you for all those times you broke into my room. Maybe I’ll even let you hang out in here.” He wasn’t entirely sure if the offer was worth the trouble.

 

“It’s gonna work.” Rogue added, “Or at least, it’s supposed to.” 

 

She walked over to Wanda’s altar to grab a silver goblet, splashing wine inside after she pulled the cork out of the bottle with her teeth. He thought they’d take a drink, but Rogue simply set the cup in the second circle. Why buy wine if no one was going to drink it? Peter couldn’t ask, he got shoved to the left, Wanda setting him in place on the outskirts of the salt wall. Rogue produced some strange sachet from her pocket, which she placed in a metal bowl that was settled in the center circle. In a split second, she took her lighter out and set the sachet on fire, quickly moving to her spot on the right, across from Peter. Wanda took the space in the middle, her book cradled in her arms, open on a certain page Peter couldn't see. He opened his mouth to voice the questions swirling around his head, but they all died in his throat when Rogue put a finger to her lips and shushed him. 

 

Then the strangeness truly began to set in. Wanda started to read out loud, odd words in a thick tongue that sounded like pure gibberish. Rogue simply held out her arms to the side, head bowed in silence, and Peter followed suit, mostly out of fear. His sister's words echoed in his ears, and seemed to gain resonance, until he was absolutely certain they rang and bounced off the walls like a tuning fork. He dared to take a peek, and felt his heart stop when he noticed the smoke from the bowl collected in a thick, purple cloud that refused to escape the circle’s confines. A thin haze ghosted across the space like fog, creeping down the walls and underneath the door. It smelled like burnt matches and rotten eggs. And perhaps it was this haze that was making him see things, because he thought he saw some of the insects and organs twitch.

 

Then everything shook. It started off as a small vibration that Peter mistook for his own legs caving under him, but when Wanda’s words got louder, it became heavier, until the floorboards creaked and the furniture rattled. She just kept going. Even when the book nearly tumbled from her hands, Wanda continued to chant over the sounds, her last word a shout as powerful as the wood that threatened to crack from the pressure. She closed the book and dropped it to her feet, one hand reaching for Rogue’s, the other for Peter's. The moment her fingertips made contact with her brother, all hell broke loose. 

 

The floor bounced and crackled, the walls waved like guitar strings, and the circles took on a white glow and spun around on the floor. The liquids in vials boiled, the stones and metals hovered off the ground, and butterflies fluttered around in jars while rabbit hearts pumped away. It became too much. All three felt their feet shift, and soon, they all crashed down. Wanda was lucky enough to catch herself and fall backwards, but the other two didn't. Rogue and Peter went forward into the circles, small items knocked over in the process. Rogue’s hand grazed a small piece of plain bismuth, and she let out a yelp, frozen in place. Peter knocked over a vial of some silvery looking liquid that latched onto his hand, and crawled up his skin in strange symbols. Wanda was quick enough to pull her friend back, her entire frame smoking and shaking. She wasn't quick enough to grab her brother. 

 

An intense ringing sound shot through Peter's ears, while his skin burned and bubbled across his arms, all the way toward his torso. He couldn't move, he couldn't see, all around him was a white light that stung deep into his very core. He felt like he was being ripped apart. In the back of his mind, somewhere far away from all this, he could make out Wanda’s voice as it called out to him. He could even swear he felt her hands on him, trying so hard to pull him out. Peter couldn't move, though, he was glued to his spot inside the second circle. 

 

What did they do? 

 

There's so much screaming mixed in with that horrible ringing, Peter isn't even sure where it's coming from. He thinks it might be him, but that's hard to figure out with the blood pumping through his ears. There's hands in his hair that pull and yank at each strand, and they feel like they're on fire. Every part of him feels like it's on fire. Every part of him feels so heavy, like there's metal swimming through his veins. Too much for his body to handle, so it pours out through his eyes and down his cheeks. He hears a bang and a flash of light, and suddenly, he's on his back and the burning stops. The heaviness and ache still consume him though, his ears still pound and ring as he slowly peels his eyelids open. 

 

Peter's on the floor. In the distance, he can make out Rogue’s body on the ground, and Wanda in front of him. Her mouth moves, but he can't make out a single word, or even feel her hands shake him and clutch onto his shirt. It feels like hell moving his eyes toward the circles, but he does, and there's a white light in the middle of it. It stirs and shifts, sucking in air until it stands tall and turns into a cosmic cloud - pure purples and blues, complete with little specks of white. Then it implodes on itself, a silhouette in its place. It looks human, but the tail that swishes through the smoke says otherwise. 

  
Peter swears he hears someone say, “ _ Wo bin ich? _ ” but his ears can't function anymore. His eyelids grow heavy, and the last thing he sees is Wanda’s face staring down at him in horror. He can ask her about that later, right now, he just wants to sleep. 


	2. Some Kind of Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter awakes to find that the events of last night truly happened, and had truly terrifying consequences.  
> Title: Some Kind of Nature by Gorillaz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, this took much longer than expected. I'm gonna be honest, and I've thought about what I've been wanting to say, so here goes- the only reason I started writing was bc I've got a lot of free time (no school plus no work) and it helped keep me busy. But I started getting depressed bc I'm an adult and this hobby reaps no benefits other than a few kudos and the occasional comment. I appreciate them, but still. I got back in the mood bc of an anon who was curious about another story. I'm still gonna write for all my projects, bc I find it therapeutic and I like sharing/ talking to you guys. So, here's the second chapter. Please enjoy.

_...Peter…_   
_There’s something off about you, did you know that?_   
_...Peter…_   
_You’re bigger than these bones that hold you, a mountain inside a pebble. Viable cannon fodder for what’s to come._   
_...Please…_   
_.....Who are you?....._   
_Wake up!_

Peter springs up, lungs heaving for breath, the air flow so heavy it feels like he’s about to crack. Everything feels heavy. His body, his mind, the lids that cradle his weary eyeballs, they all feel like they were carved out of stone. It’s almost as if he’s one of those ancient statues caught at the bottom of the sea, always staring up from the black abyss, constant water pressure ready to crush him. Yes, that’s close, but not quite right. Perhaps he’s more on par with a corpse come back to life. He feels like one, so it makes sense. There’s this sensation that he was ripped apart, dissected like a frog, then haphazardly stuffed back together and his seams are about to tear. It doesn’t help that he swears he can smell a faint whiff of formaldehyde. Statue, corpse, Peter, it doesn’t matter - right now they all feel synonymous.

Everything is a blur when he opens his eyes, so he shuts them tight and feels around with his clammy palms. There’s a blanket around his waist, pillows and cushions around his back and shoulders. He can feel the back of the couch, and the itchy fabric of the curtains right behind it. His hand hits warm glass, something he assumes is the window, letting sunlight brush by at a steady pace. Peter jumps when he hears a gasp, followed by the smack of something against the floorboards, and footsteps in his direction. A hand grabs onto his forearm and pulls him forward, another one cradles his cheek.

“Peter? Oh, my god, are you okay? Can you hear me?” says the person, and it sounds like Wanda. Her skin feels so cool in comparison to his own, feverish and slick with sweat. The touch is such a relief, he nearly misses the way her voice wavers.

He opens his eyes as best he can, her face now in view, albeit mostly blurry. She’s on her knees in front of him, eyes wide and red, purple underneath, her cheeks streaked with dried tears. “Wanda?” he croaks out, and more tears slide down, dripping off her chin. Wanda pulls him into a hug and buries her face in his neck, her voice nothing more than a mixture of babbles and sobs. How is it possible for someone to sound so scared and so relieved at the same time?

Maybe she squeezed him a little too hard, or maybe the heat finally got to him, whatever it is, it makes him push her back so he can hunch over to cough. His throat is too dry to produce anything, so all he can do is gag, his stomach flexing as it tries to push up nothing. Wanda jumps up and rushes to the kitchen, followed by the sounds of clanks and smacks as she looks around for a water bottle. A drink sounds enticing, but right now, he needs to get up. There's no logic or reason behind it, but he needs to move or he'll go crazy. It's borderline claustrophobia, like some part of him is caught in a snare. Doesn't make much sense, given he's stuck in the living room, and he's never been claustrophobic in his life.

_..…I need to leave, I don't belong here….._

Peter pauses in his movements, his hands braced on the coffee table. He peeks around and sees no one, no source for a voice he could've sworn he just heard. Maybe he's going crazy, maybe he did some hardcore drugs last night and now he's paying for it. Yeah, that's plausible, it's not like he has any other explanation. He pulls himself up on shaky legs, his knees wobbling with each shuffle towards the archway, hands grabbing onto anything for purchase. Peter barely makes it past the chair before he stumbles, landing in a heap by the wall.

“Jesus, can't you hold still for one damn minute?”

Peter blinks a few times and there's Rogue a few steps away, coming closer at a steady pace. She's got her arms wrapped around herself, bandages stretched over her knuckles down to her wrists. The girl kneels down in front of him and helps him sit up against the wall, her image clearer by the second. Her face is swollen and bruised, pale enough to let a few veins peek out in the light. That doesn't compare to her hair, where there was nothing but red, now there's white coating her bangs like an ivory curtain. As tempted as Peter is to comment on it, he flinches when she peels back one of his eyelids and shines a penlight in his pupil. He's too weak to argue against it, not to mention she's a nursing student, so she gets leeway.

“My God…” she mumbles and switches to the other eye. “What the hell happened to you?”

That's an odd question. She doesn't even explain what she means, Rogue simply backs away and pulls out her phone with a shaky hand, typing away as she stands up. She paces and twiddles her fingers, a groan or hiss coming out of her mouth when the device doesn't give her the answer she was looking for.

“How is he?” says Wanda as she steps back in, and passes a water bottle to Peter. Rogue simply shakes her head and shuts her eyes tight, rubbing at her temples.

Whatever they murmur to each other gets ignored as Peter pops open the cap and chugs the water down. For a few brief moments it feels like heaven on his throat, until it hits his stomach. The cool sensation gets replaced by acidic fire that feels like it's about to climb up his esophagus. A sudden rush of adrenaline floods his system, and he scrambles to stand up and rush to the bathroom, both girls jumping out of his way.

He crashes against the sink and grips onto it as he heaves up the contents of his belly. Mouthful after mouthful of liquid pours out of him, his stomach flexing to push out anything left behind. By the time the flow of water and saliva slows down, his already shaky legs nearly give out when he notices the white porcelain stained red, a few drops coming from the corner of his mouth. Terror soon turns into confusion when he realizes it doesn't taste like blood - it tastes like wine. Even as he smacks his sticky tongue against the slimy roof of his mouth, the taste of alcohol is unmistakable. He didn't drink, he knows that for a fact, so how did this end up in his system? There was no way…

Peter rinses out his mess and mouth, turning to look up at his reflection. Now he sincerely wished he was drunk, because that made hell of a lot more sense than what was in front of him. The young man staring back at him is a version of himself he can't recognize. His hair, his brown hair that was as plain as plain could get, now shines silver in the light. Even his eyebrows and the faint stubble lining his chin are silver. His eyes, on the other hand, are blue around the rim of his iris, a color that sinks like ink into his pupils.

_…..Out… I need to get out, please….._

That voice echoes inside his skull, and Peter can only whine as he grips his hair, dropping to his knees. It doesn't take long for Wanda to show up, Rogue behind her with a first aid kit. His sister, with some inhuman strength, manages to pull him up and cradle his head against her shoulder, sobbing and mumbling apology after apology as she does. Peter can see the other girl behind her, tears caught in her eyes. When Wanda’s arms shake too much to keep her grip, she maneuvers her brother onto the edge of the bathtub, and Rogue swoops in to check on him. There's some pushes and prods, some moving his head to and fro, and a sigh of either relief or defeat from her pale lips.

“I don't know what's wrong with him. I've tried looking for something, but his symptoms could be anything. It doesn't make sense…” she says, tracing her fingers across his forearms. He follows along when he notices something - she's tracing along patterns in his skin. The blur of before is gone, and now he can clearly see what looks to be metallic scars running along his arms, like complicated fish scales. They stretch and wind in impossible symbols, from the tips of his fingers, past the edge of his sleeves.

Peter croaks out, “What… happened last night?”

Both girls look to each other, before Wanda leans in and says, “You don't remember?”

He shakes his head. The only things that come to mind are Lance falling face first onto the ground, and Wanda screaming at him for some reason. Why was she screaming? Because he broke into her room again, right? Yeah, but there was more to it than that… Peter closes his eyes and thinks, pulling apart each and every little detail he could recall. Wanda’s room… and salt, lots of it. Why was there so much salt? Salt and jars and smoke…

A red light flares behind his eyelids and a picture flashes into his mind. There's circles around him, and smoke, and so much light and sound it's painful. Rogue is on the floor, and Wanda is shaking… him? He can see himself, curled up and broken. That's not right. He looks down at his hands and nearly screams. They're blue, not frostbite blue, but literally blue, three large digits instead of five. In his mind, he can hear himself say, _“Wo bin ich?”_

Peter yelps and nearly falls backward into the tub, only saved by the girls when they grab him and tug him forward. There’s something was in Wanda’s room, and whatever it was is still there. He pushes himself up on shaky legs and uses the wall for support as he maneuvers out the room and towards the stairs. The girls shout at him to sit down, but he ignores them and pries off their fingers as he pulls himself up the steps. Even in his weak state, the closer he got to Wanda’s room, the stronger he felt, while the girls only seemed to lose their grip. Something in the back of his mind edges him on, the sensation so soothing, he trips over himself in his haste when he spots the room at the end of the hall.

_…..That's it… just a little closer….._

There's a sob of relief stuck in his throat when he reaches the door, and when the handle doesn't turn, he smashes his shoulder against it. Wanda and Rogue are behind him, pulling or begging for him to come back, and he can't understand why. How could they say that? He needed to be in here, he had to get in this room, he'd die if he didn't.

The wood finally gives in and he falls inside, cold air brushing past him, a sea breeze caught indoors. It's impossibly dark in here, even though it's the middle of the day, but he doesn't care. His heart races, fire pulsates through his muscles, and he feels so relieved that tears roll down his cheeks. Wanda and Rogue both look terrified behind him, refusing to take another step in. Why? Why would they look like that when he felt so…

Peter finally turns his head towards what's in front of him. The chalk circles are still there, littered with broken glass and dried fluids. In the middle of the mess, though, that's what drains the blood from his face. It's… a person? No, he can't tell what it is. It's squatting in the middle circle, a tail flicking behind it, yellow eyes peering at him through the dark. It whines and stretches out a hand - only three fingers on it - then crawls forward into the light from the hall. A face comes into view, decorated in swirly scars and stained blue. All of their hearts skip a beat.

_“Hilfe… bitte. Hilf mir…”_ it says, looking desperate and terrified. Peter wonders if this is just a reflection of his mind.  
He scrambles back, falling on his backside near his sister's feet, and she reaches down to comfort him. They all stare at the thing, and it does the same, not once daring to reach beyond the last circle. The look on its face shifts to anguish, and it's crawling around the space like a tiger in a cage, its teeth just as sharp when it opens its mouth to mutter to itself.

“What the hell is that thing?” Peter forces out his lungs, and the thing itself legitimately looks hurt at his words.

Rogue seems utterly stoic when she says, “It's a demon. We brought the wrong thing into this house, and I don't know how to get rid of it.” Wrong thing? What did she mean by that? He loses his chance to ask when she moves away and says over her shoulder, “I've had enough of this thing. I'm gonna go find Magik, she should be able to help.”

Wanda nods at her and says, “Alright, I'm gonna see if there's any spells to get rid of it.” Before she stands, she whispers to her brother, “Stay here and keep an eye on it. It shouldn't be able to hurt you, but don't listen to whatever it says. And no matter what, don't ever tell it your name, got it?”

“Why the hell are you leaving me alone with it?!” Peter hisses back.

“Because you don't know anything about magic, and we need someone to watch it. Besides, you barged in here and you can't even stand straight, so there's no point in moving you, right?”

She gets up and follows after her friend, their footsteps getting farther and farther away. Now, all that's left is him and this demonic creature, its yellow eyes never leaving him. This has to be a dream, a nightmare, or maybe he was stuck in a coma. Anything seems plausible compared to this. He told himself time and time again this was all a fairy tale and religious nonsense, but now there's a biblical being staring back at him. His mind began to swirl and pound, this information too much to process.

_…..Help…._

Peter jumps when he hears that and looks up, seeing the demon stare at him with such intense focus, his skin starts to crawl.

_…..Take me out….._

It takes him a moment to realize that voice wasn't auditory, just a thought that rings in his skull. It sounds the same, holds the same desperation, the same need for freedom. The damn thing, its presence becoming crueler by the minute, somehow crawled its way into some crack in his head.

He stands up and carefully approaches the circles, the thing following his every move without blinking. Once he deems the distance good enough, he crouches down and looks closer at whatever this thing is. It has shaggy, dark hair, similar to the color of its flesh, and a youthful face that's easily betrayed by pointed ears and sharp eyes. Scrape off the blue and it could've been mistaken for a teenager. Although, the hands, feet, and tail said otherwise.

_…..Take me out….._

“No.” Peter says, shaking his head. No matter what it said, that's not something he would do. It leans forward, glaring from underneath heavy brows.

_…..Take. Me. Out….._

The boy simply bites his lip and holds his ground. He wouldn't listen to a single thing this creature had to say. Even as his breath quickens and his stare wavers when the thing scowls back. He could hear a growl bubble in its throat.

_…..Take me out. Take me out. Take me out. Take me out. Takemeouttakemeouttakemeouttakemeouttakemeout....._

Peter hisses, “Shut up!”

It doesn't stop, it only stares him down furiously, still droning the same mantra that eventually delves into shouts, and Peter feels his his own brain matter throb and rattle. It becomes too much to bear, no sound audible past the echo pushing out all coherent thought. Peter finally lets out a scream and shoots his arm through the circle’s barrier, grabbing onto the demon's forearm. It happens so fast he doesn't realize what he's done. He simply pulls the creature out and clutches onto it, body wracked with harsh pants and shivers once the terrible buzz ceases. The thing lets out a relieved laugh, holding onto Peter with an impossibly strong grip. It takes a few moments for him to notice he was hugging a literal demon.

He shoves himself back and looks up at the creature as it sits on its haunches, the darkness in the room now gone, sucked up the moment it got out. It smiles, something so cheery and innocent it's almost sickening. When it opens its mouth, he flinches, but it simply says, _“Danke.”_

Its tail curls around its frame, and it closes its eyes, face so peaceful and content, it looks like a cat. Fear turns to morbid curiosity when Peter realizes the thing doesn't move, nor tries to attack him. It's so happy to be free of its confines, it seems more than satisfied with sitting in that one spot. Peter's senses go on high alert when it looks down at him and says with a thick German accent, _“Sie… Sie heißt… Peter, ja?”_

He stays silent, his eyes wide as his adam's apple bobs with a gulp. Like an awkward teen, it looks away and fidgets with its fingers. Now the weirdness just reached a whole new level. Since when were demons shy? And since when were they German? So many questions, no time to answer them, since Wanda runs up the stairs. Peter looks over to her, and the minute she spots him, her look of confusion shrivels up into pure terror. She rushes over and pushes Peter back, holding out the crucifix she wore around her neck. The thing simply peeks up at her like she was stupid.

Shakily, she holds it out higher and fumbles to grab a bottle with a cross on it from out of her pocket, filled with water. She stutters, “Stay… st-stay back, demon! Go back from-from whence you came!” With that, Wanda flicks the water at the creature, expecting it to scream and sizzle, but it blinks and wipes the liquid off its face.

_…..Tell her I've already been baptized….._

Peter turns his head towards it, eyes wide, and it stares back. It takes him a moment to open his dry mouth and say, “It, uh, it said it's already been baptized…”

_“Ich bin kein ‘es’.”_ it hisses, the pointed tail behind it swishing around.

“How do you know what it said?” She asks, and the creature rolls its eyes in response. Wanda blinks a few times before she turns to it and, almost sheepishly, says, “Wait… that's, uh, German? You're… you're not an ‘it’?”

The demon nods.

It seems that Wanda’s language classes were finally paying off, although, using them to talk to a creature from the netherworld doesn't seem like a good use of her time and money. She's still on edge, gulping every so often as she watches it and it watches back. Wanda steps back, blindly reaching for Peter, her grip impossibly tight on his hand when he reaches for her. Without shifting her gaze, she leans down and mutters, “What did you do?”

How did one tell their sister they released a demon because the voices in their head were driving them crazy? Oddly enough, when that thought crossed his mind, the creature seemed to giggle to itself. Creepy.

“I, uh… I may have pulled it out, because…” he began. Honestly, how the hell was he going to explain this?

He doesn't get the chance to finish. Rogue comes up the stairs, ready to say something, but it dies the moment she notices the scene in front of her. In a flash of black and red, Peter feels himself being pushed back, Rogue in front of him like an angry, southern barrier.

With an expression that reads murder, she barks, “Leave this place! Go back to where you belong!”

While Peter found her stuffy and weird, he can't help but be dumbfounded by her bravery in the face of the unknown. Not that he would ever tell her that. The demon, on the other hand, furrows its brows and glares at her, the fury on its face betrayed by a quivering lip.

“Stuck…” it says, hands curled tight around its arms, “Can't… leave…”

_…..You summoned me….._

“Summoned?” Peter mutters to himself, catching the attention of both girls in the room. When Wanda asks what he said, he turns to her and says, “Did we… summon this thing?”

He doesn't know what that means, but a flash of realization crosses the girls’ faces. It was a difficult expression to read as they stare at one another - some combination of fear and wonder, laced with disbelief. Wanda whispers something to Rogue, who nods and stays put, her eyes glued to the demon as the girl tiptoes across the room to snatch her book abandoned on the ground. Peter can only stare at them in confusion, Rogue on guard while his sister flips through the pages and paces around. His eyes fall back on the creature, its face downcast until it realizes it's being watched. Its ears perk up, eyes a rich cognac color in the light, fangs daring to peek out when it offers a sad smile. While he feels the need to pity it - it did look like it was a moment away from puking after all - there's something purely malicious hiding in its stare that makes him want to run.

“Here it is.” Wanda breaks the silence and approaches her friend, pointing to a passage in her book as she continues, “It says whatever demon we summon is compelled to do our bidding in exchange for something of equal or greater value, until it fulfills its requests. So… looks like we've got a temporary demon servant.”

Peter flinches when the demon turns to her and growls, some vibrating hum from deep in its throat. Moving on instinct, he stands up in front of his sister, gaze never shifting from it. The demon, in turn, drops the sound into a deep rumble that's barely audible, and pouts. Now it really looks like a teenager.

Its lips twitch and it opens its mouth, trying to form a sentence, until it finally gets out, “Can't…” Followed by a vigorous head shake.

_…..I'm not a full demon….._

…

This was a mistake. Actually, this whole day was a mistake, Peter really should've just played dead and he wouldn't be here right now.

The moment Peter let that thing out, the power in the house shut off, and had no intention of turning on any time soon. Which meant no online translators to help with the language barrier, and Wanda barely started her German classes, so no luck there. Their only option was to go out and get some books to help illuminate this situation, and given Peter really didn't want to be in the house with a supernatural freak, he volunteered to collect them. Which he regrets.

The beanie on his head itches, the sunglasses he sports make him look hungover, and he's practically melting in his hoodie, so by the time he gets to the nearest bus stop and hops on, he's ready to strip there and then. His skin feels like it's crawling and squirming - a million little, invisible insects skittering and chewing their way around him. He can't help but twitch and scratch at something that isn't there, but the other people on the bus just mistake him for a druggie and keep their distance. If only Lance were home, then he - oh, wait a minute. They hadn't seen hide nor tail of him since last night, which was great since he missed out on all the chaos, but bad given his car is a limousine in comparison to this stuffy hunk of metal. Maybe he was nursing his hangover, or maybe he was stalking Kitty, wherever Lance was, he was better off there than in this cesspool of bullshit.

Peter rests his head against the back of his seat, eyes closed to keep out the light. Even if he no longer felt like a walking corpse, that didn't mean the ache left his bones just yet. Something to blame on that damn thing that got in their home. A small frown finds its way onto his mouth, the mere thought of that creature is enough to rile him up. It growled at his sister, forced thoughts into his head, even had the audacity to smile! Whatever it is, the quicker he got to the library, the faster it would go back to hell.

The bus rattles and whines, each bounce cause for Peter to knock his head against his seat and silently cry in misery, but it eventually stops at his destination and he flies out first chance he gets. The university library is big enough to qualify as its own ecosystem, complete with a gift shop and cafe. The perfect location for nerds and stoners, but given Peter is neither, he's going to have trouble venturing into unknown territory.

The climb up concrete steps is torture, by the time he reaches the top, he's about ready to topple into the nearest potted plant. Heavy wooden doors give way to a musty interior, cool and fragrant with dust and coffee, the only light from large windows around the place. Peter is content to just stand there and bask in the peace for a moment, and if it weren't for the librarian with the stink eye cast his way, he would've dropped to the dirty carpet for a nap. He paces down a few aisles, that lingering ache within growing stronger the more he moves inward. By the time he reaches a few empty desks, he takes a seat and lets his head fall onto one of them with a thud. It's loud enough to garner whispers from nearby students, not to mention the pain it brings, but he's much too tired to care.

What did Wanda want again? He drums his fingers in thought, the sound loud in the silence. She wants a German to English dictionary, a book on the occult, something on demonology, and perhaps a few other things he can't remember. The list she gave him is right in his hoodie pocket, but he's too tired to even manage that. Any energy he had he wasted just coming here, and he's on the verge of falling asleep. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, just to close his eyes and doze off for a few minutes…

“Peter? Is that you?”

He's startled into an upright position, the rush of which leaves his vision blurry for a second, but he can clearly make out a tall figure with glossy, red hair in front of him. Even a drunkard would recognize this girl. Her name is Jean Gray, a star upperclassman who makes perfection look easy. This is obviously her domain that Peter crossed into, so the princess probably came to check on the intruder to gauge what ill will he had in store.

She steps closer, and rests a hand on his shoulder as she continues, “Are you okay? You don't look so well…”

Every word she lets out is shaped by perfectly peachy lips, that stretch into a winning smile no one can deny. Despite the tenderness of her voice and the concern in her eye, he's wary, body subconsciously tense. He knew she hid something beneath that delicate facade, a startling power that usually meant chaos for Peter and his cronies. He'd never forget the boom of her voice when she caught him and a few guys smoking, back in high school. And he certainly wouldn't forget the way she managed to round all of them up in the principal's office. Pretty and scary, she was the whole package.

Peter croaks out, “I'm fine.”

Jean crouches down and leans in. “Peter, it's okay if something's wrong, you can tell me. I won't judge you.” She makes a gesture to the sunglasses, a silent request to take them off.

“Look, Red. I'm not hungover, I don't have a black eye, so why don't you-" Peter's eyes go wide and he groans in pain, a sharp sting traveling through his belly. He rests his head against the wood and grits his teeth, which only encourages Jean to prod him further.

“Peter? Do you need to be taken to the hospital? I can drive you, it's no problem-"

At the rising panic in her voice, Peter shakes his head and weakly points to his hoodie pocket. She gets the message and fishes out the slip of paper, and confusion takes the place of worry.

“You need… books? I didn't know you were studying anything, much less this… sort of stuff.”

He can detect the distaste that lingers on her tongue. Peter never came in here for books, in fact, he never came here at all, so him reading anything was absurd enough, the content of the list just made it stranger.

“Not… not for me, th-they're for Wanda.” Peter says, voice muffled by the desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her face relax as she lets out a silent ‘oh’.

“That makes more sense.” She says, eyes on the paper once more. “How about I get these for you? I don't want you getting sick looking for them. Okay?”

He's pretty sure that's code for ‘I don't want you puking all over my books,’ but she's right either way, so he nods. Jean shoots him one last sympathetic smile before she gets up and leaves, her figure gone as she rounds a bookshelf.

The sensation of the plastic on his face gets to him, so he yanks off the glasses, sighing in relief as the cool wood of the desk graces his feverish forehead. The pain begins to subside, albeit sluggishly, but he'll take what he can get as the tension melts out of his stomach, allowing him to go limp in his seat. While he is relieved, there's a weight at the back of his mind, some nagging sensation. Please hurry is the thought that comes to him, but it feels too forced, not his own. Oh God… it isn't that thing again, is it? How far could it reach him? He thought their immediate proximity was the only grasp it had on him, given the ride over was silent. Bile collects at the back of his throat, eyes wide at the realization that there might be no escape from this creature.

Peter doesn't recall the words exactly, but he feels himself mumbling a prayer he's heard his mother say, time and time again. His version relies solely on memory, but it feels relieving on his heart and mind. No evils can touch him as long as he prays. He shuts his eyes tight and thinks of his family synagogue, of the smooth pews and glittering Stars of David. He can hear the rabbi drone and the people sing, and the holy salvation it brings slowly eases the weight on his shoulders. Gold and blue and white… he'll be fine as long as he thinks of these things.

In his mind's eye, he can see himself standing on the synagogue’s tile floor, a wooden altar before him. As he reaches out for it, a cross appears on its surface, and he finds himself confused. That shouldn't be there. The cross grows and looms over him, and the building melts away, along with everything in it, and Peter is standing in the middle of a forest. The cross looks decrepit and makeshift, a combination of twisted logs and rope tied to a tree. Peter can no longer force his prayers out his lips, his lungs too afraid to take in any air. Then, he hears it - voices. He hears women chanting and groaning, surrounding him on all sides. Without warning, wooden spikes jut from the earth, crosses carved into all of them as they get closer and closer. Peter feels one sprout underneath him, the tip of its sharp body ready to rip through his own.

He shouts and falls back, the haze finally clearing enough for him to realize where he is. He is still in the library, on the floor, covered in sweat. Nearby people come over to see the commotion, their voices hard to make out, their forms shaky. Peter thinks he's hyperventilating, he can't tell, he's too distracted by the wave of nausea that punches his gut. One of his hands rip off his beanie, partially to let out some heat, but mostly to catch any vomit that might come out of him. Someone rushes over and gets on their knees next to him. Red hair fills his vision, soft hands hold his cheeks.

“Oh my god, Peter? Are you-" Jean starts, stopping herself when she sees his face and hair. “You… come on, I'm taking you to the emergency room.”

“No! No, no, no…” Peter says, mumbling and shaking his head, making him seem more unhinged than he realizes.

The librarian makes her way over, her phone at the ready with 911 already punched in, and Jean holds her hand up to stop her. There was no reasoning with Peter in this state, so she tries the next best thing.

“Peter, let me take you home, ok?”

He doesn't argue.

…

Pictures come and go in flashes. There's a green car with cold leather seats, sitting in the shade. Then, there's Jean talking on her phone, glancing at Peter as he puts his hands in front of the air vents. After that, his cheek is glued to his seat as other cars and buildings pass by, the constant hum of the engine buzzing in his ears. Without notice, he's suddenly in front of his home and Jean’s doing her best to wake him up.

“Can you walk?” she says, taking off his seatbelt and turning him to face her.

It takes him a few blinks and breaths to hoarsely reply, “I think so.”

Jean, stronger than she looks, manages to pull him out and have him stand, albeit a bit wobbly. She tells him to stay put as she rummages around the back seat for something, but he doesn't listen. All his hazy eyes can see are the front door, and his feet shuffle in tow. Home, all he wants is home and he'd break a bone just to get there.

Peter's halfway across the path when the front door opens while Jean shouts at him from behind. He's too confused by the girl barrelling down the porch in his direction to heed whatever Jean’s saying. By the time he realizes it's Wanda, she's already pulling him into a hug that could pop blood vessels.

“Jesus Christ, you dipshit!” she screams, emphasizing almost all of her words with punches to his shoulder. “Why the hell did you wanna go by yourself? I told you this was a bad idea!”

“Whoa!” Jean rushes to his rescue, a backpack weighing down her petite shoulders, and puts a firm hand on both of them. “Go easy on him, he's still not doing too well.”

Both girls escort him up the steps and onto the porch, but while Jean is ready to enter the home to help her delirious ward, Wanda is hesitant. Peter is too out of it to notice her stop at the door.

“Is something wrong?” Jean asks.

“Uh… No, no, it's just… you know it's our house and it's a little messy, so…” Wanda says.

“Ah, of course.” Jean gives her that all knowing smile and steps back. “I wouldn't want to intrude. I'll just leave your books over here.”

She heaves off her book bag and moves to a nearby chair. While she does that, Wanda shoves Peter inside, into the waiting arms of Rogue. In a flash he's whisked away and plopped into a seat in the kitchen. The blinds are pulled and the lights are off, replaced by a handful of candles in a variety of colors and scents.

The nausea starts to wane, sluggish but sure, his vision clearing up enough to notice his surroundings. There's books and papers across the table, lunch meat on the counter, and Rogue in the archway, watching him with unwavering intensity. There's also a strange sensation he can't shake off. His hair stands on end, goosebumps ripple across his forearms, his nerves vibrate. It's a buzzing mix of anticipation and fear, like he's about to ride a rollercoaster. That's when he notices the yellow eyes watching him from the end of the table.

The demon is sitting there, tearing off pieces of a sandwich from the plate in front of it, and stuffing the pieces in its cheeks, eyes never moving. Peter's in such disbelief he doesn't move until, with a mouth surrounded by crumbs, it says, _“Ich bin froh, Sie zu sehen.”_

“... What the hell.” is the only thing he can manage to get out.

He scrambles to stand up, which only serves to make him dizzy and lean on the counter behind him. The creature responds by shrinking back in its seat.

“What… what- just… _why_ is that thing in here?” Peter says.

Rogue looks at him and shrugs. “We're just showing our houseguest some hospitality.”

“... Are you serious. Is this a southern thing?”

“Don't look at me, you let it out to begin with. ‘Sides, this was your sister's idea.”

Wanda did this? How on earth could someone go from being scared shitless of something to wanting to feed it? She must've either hurt herself last night or dived completely off the deep end, her logic warped by magic or maybe too much hair dye.

Honestly, he doesn't want another moment near it, he'd had his fill for the day. Peter moves towards the archway, only stopping when he feels a tug on the back of his brain - a magnet pulling on his skull.

_….. Please… don't go….._

A shiver runs through him, head slowly turning to see that thing stand up and watch him. It looks desperate, like a tiger about to lose its meal.

He points to it and says, “You, _you_ , don't talk to me, I don't want anything to do with you. You might have gotten them to like you, but not me. You can fuck off right back to hell for all I care.”

Peter turns to storm out, only to find Wanda before him, arms stacked with books, a look on her face that's simply a mix of exhaustion and sadness.

“Peter…” she says, “Can… can't you just stay for a minute? Please? It's safe, I promise. We need you - _I_ need you - to stay and help. Please…”

There's tears sprouting in her eyes, just one of the pairs he can feel upon him, drowning him in a sea of stares. His sister, his twin, his only half, needs him. Peter knows he'd do anything for her, but…

His voice drops to a murmur, “Wands… I love you, but I can't. Look at me,” he raises his hands and runs his fingers through his hair, silver scars playing with silver strands. “Look what happened to me because of this, because of that _thing_ in our home. I don't want to be around it for another minute.”

She opens her mouth, but snaps her jaw shut and averts her gaze. Her brother sees it as his opportunity and takes it, marching up the stairs until he reaches his room, locking the door behind him with a sigh.

It's a bittersweet sense of relief, but at what cost? She was probably down there right now, upset and it was all his fault. But what about him? Isn't he allowed to be upset too? For god's sake, he can't even look at himself in the mirror as he passes by. There's only shame hiding in that reflection.

The bed in the corner is the only thing that provides unconditional comfort, gladly taking him in its soft embrace. That, combined with the headphones waiting for him on the nightstand, offer up nothing more than pure paradise. He pulls them on and, with a click and a few presses, they begin to play a Pink Floyd song that he can't remember the title of. Not that it matters, as long as it drowns out all coherent thought.

Too bad his subconscious dances alongside the music, and it creates a soundtrack over images of his sister fraternizing with a hellspawn. He can see her, pointing to her books and talking to it. Why’d he have to run? He left his only sister with that thing, and God knows what it could be doing. Maybe it was working dark magic on her or trying to convince her to worship the devil. But what would've become of him if he stayed? Forced to buddy up with a demon, and for what? Why on earth did they need him for? He doesn't know anything about this mystical load of shit. He's fairly certain that creature would only hurt him further, unless Peter got the drop on it and strangled it till it turned a darker shade of blue.

_….. I'm sorry….._

What?

Peter sits up and looks around the room, the music still pounding against his eardrums. Not now, not in here.

_….. Not my fault… I didn't do it….._

“Shut up.” he says to the empty room. “Leave me alone.”

A few seconds pass, the only sounds filling his head nothing but music notes. He still feels it, at the back of his mind, like it's staring at him from behind. Waiting to open its mouth again, waiting for a moment to strike. Peter clasps his hands tight around his headphones, his thoughts louder than the music, a constant mantra of:

_Leave me alone._   
_Leave me alone._   
_Leave me alone._

He doesn't stop, even when the minutes turn to hours, and the sun dips down. He doesn't stop when his eyes flutter shut and he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments, critiques, or concerns are welcome. Be sure to drop by my tumblr (23monsterboy). I've also started an art blog with very few pictures bc I'm lazy and can't afford a better tablet, and I got an Instagram if you wanna see my face or whatever (I promise I'm actually kinda cute). Also, congratulate me bc I've started back up with school (it's just one class but still, it's been 3 years since I've gone). Thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> Quick little translations:  
> Hellblau - light blue  
> Wo bin ich? - where am I?  
> Please keep in mind that while this was inspired by the X-Men Evolution cartoon series (I watched it recently, I haven't seen it since middle school, and even then I had a bad crush on Nightcrawler), I want any version of the X-Men to be applicable, so other characters and references from the comics/movies will be featured. So, pretty much picture any version of the characters you want.  
> As always, comments and critiques are always appreciated. If you want to request/commission a story, or just want to chat, you can reach me at 23monsterboy on tumblr. Thank you.


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